May you live in interesting times
by Rinne
Summary: On his day off, Don gets taken hostage. Part 6 posted. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 1)  
Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Gen with mentions of Charlie/Amita and Don/Robin  
Spoilers: Up to and including 5.23. Set post season 5.  
Characters: Don, David, Alan, Liz, Amita, Colby, Nikki, Robin, Charlie  
Word count: ~20,080 words total  
A/N: Started mid 2008 for valerie84 for the Numb3rs summer gen ficathon. Finally finished with the help of ficfinishing after a long break. Thank you to my dad for answering lots of random questions about police work, goodisrelative for legal advice, and superbadgirl and bets_cyn for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Story is complete but will be posted in parts.  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

Summary: On his day off, Don gets taken hostage.

* * *

Alan smiled at the woman, steadying her as she rocked slightly on her feet. She pulled free from his grasp, walking off without a backward glance at Alan, the man she'd run into because she hadn't been looking where she was going. A roll of his eyes and a shake of his head at the lack of apology or thank you and Alan turned back to his eldest. He lifted his hand and glanced at his watch. They better get a move on or they'd be late.

"It starts in ten minutes, Don."

"Hmm?" Don finally looked away from the sports store's window and at his father. "What?"

Alan's eyebrows raised, silently berating him for his lack of attention. "The movie? The one you've wanted to see for months now?" He shook his head slightly, a fond but exasperated grimace on his face. "We don't want to miss it, do we?"

"Yeah, Dad, of course. Sorry, got a little distracted."

Alan picked up the shopping bag that he'd rested on the ground. "Yes, by all the shiny sporting goods. You know that you'd have more use for them if you—"

"Gave you some grandchildren, I know," Don interrupted with a groan and a roll of his eyes. He'd have thought with Charlie and Amita being engaged that his father would let up on him with this time-old mock argument.

Alan raised an eyebrow. "I _was_ going to say if you organised the occasional game with your friends." He glared, with more humour than annoyance in the expression. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

"You have to admit, they're words that fairly frequently come out of your mouth." Don grinned and changed the subject. "Here," he grabbed the shopping bag out of Alan's hand, "let me take that. I'll put everything in the car." He did not want to be worrying about whether a roll of toilet paper was rolling down to the front of the theatre while he was watching the movie. Plus there was the added fact that it gave him some time away from his father so that he could buy the watch that Alan had been looking at. Shopping with his dad had proven to be the best way to figure out what to get him for his birthday.

"Are you sure? Donnie, you'll miss the previews!" Alan called after him as he walked away.

"As long as I don't miss the movie," Don called back as he moved ahead at a fast pace, dodging around slower shoppers, his own shopping bags swinging.

Alan shrugged and headed for the theatre. He wasn't going to be late—he had to have something to rub Don's nose in after the movie. A preview of a movie that he'd be dying to see in the future would be just the ticket.

* * *

Don put the last bag down, shut the door and locked the suburban. A glance at his watch told him that he'd see at least some of the previews.

"Have you got the time?"

The question came from behind him. He turned around, automatically glancing down at his watch again.

"Yeah, it's three—"

A flash of movement caused him to look up, instinctively raising his arms into a defensive movement. Don cried out in pain as something hard cracked down on his right arm, almost certainly breaking it. Dodging to the side, he assessed the threat. The man was in his thirties or forties, with brown hair and faded blue eyes enraged with grief and righteousness, wearing an ordinary pair of jeans and a shirt. The man wasn't someone he'd have given a second glance, but there was something vaguely familiar about him. The baseball bat—price tag still stuck on it—struck out towards him again and he fell back against the suburban, hitting it solidly with his right side. The resulting pain brought a hiss to his lips and blackness to his vision, and he automatically cradled his broken arm.

"There-there's no need for this," he ground out between clenched teeth. He was torn about whether to declare himself FBI. It might force the guy to back off, or it might make things worse.

The man's face crumpled into a bitter smile. "There's every need, Special Agent Eppes."

The words solved Don's dilemma: the man knew exactly who Don was. Don quickly looked around. There was nobody in their area of the parking garage to come to his rescue or spook the guy. The odds of there being no one around had to be phenomenally low. There was almost no chance that Don would be able to even try to run and dodge the guy, the guy was just too close to make it possible, unless Don put him out of action for a few seconds. With a mostly useless arm, it was probably his best choice. Don also didn't think he could pull his gun out before getting hit again.

"Do I know you?" Don asked with the right level of incredulity to trigger a further reaction. He just needed two seconds of distraction.

Outrage narrowed the man's eyes and it was all Don needed to strike. Diving in low, Don took them both to the floor. A rolling clatter indicated that the baseball bat was out of play.

Don staggered back to his feet and ran a few steps forward, trying to get his right hand to grab his gun, before a hand around his ankle brought him back painfully onto his hands and knees. Sensing movement behind him, Don rolled onto his back. The man was suddenly on top of him, grabbing his arms and trying to slam him down on the concrete. A well-placed leg and Don tipped the tide in his favour, flipping them so that he was on top. Breathing past the pain in his arm and the black spots edging into his vision, Don frantically grappled with the man, trying to get his one decent arm free enough to do some damage or pin him down with his body weight. A short, sharp jab to his injured arm turned the tide in the man's favour, opening Don up for several hard blows to the head. He was forced onto his back again, feeling like a beached whale. He put his left hand on the floor and tried to push off and continue fighting, adrenaline and fear giving him the impetus even as his head spun. Another hit to the cheek sent him crashing back onto the floor, his head bouncing with a crack off the concrete. His blurred vision showed the man moving to stand over him and raising the baseball bat up high.

"Don't—"

The bat swung down again and again. There was pain, and then there was nothing.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 2)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

* * *

He rocked side to side, hitting his right shoulder against something solid. Searing pain flared every time it hit, bolting down through his arm, threatening to return him to unconsciousness. He tried to cradle it in his other hand to protect it, but his hands wouldn't move. Something thick cut into his wrists and he realised that they were tied together. His chest hurt every time he breathed and his head felt like he'd done three rounds with Mike Tyson. Something stuck the side of his face to whatever was below him. A moan escaped his lips as his arm was jolted again, even though he tried to hold it in.

Sluggishly, his brain remembered what had happened and placed the faint sounds he could hear: traffic. His feet were resting against something hard, there was rough carpet under his face and the air was close, hot and stifling. He was also rocking into a vertical surface. Adding it all together led his brain slowly to the conclusion that he was probably in the trunk of a car. Opening his eyes to a slit proved that one eye was swollen shut, he was surrounded by darkness and the man who attacked him was nowhere nearby. Darker shadows revealed the fact that he was in a small space and indicated he was probably right about being in the trunk of a car.

A wave of panic washed over him and he breathed through it, waiting for his heart rate and breathing to return to normal. Getting knocked out, tied up and shoved in the trunk of someone's car was not normal for an FBI agent, despite what the movies or the TV depicted. There was only so much that training and discussing scenarios could help with preparing for the reality, and in practice it often was inadequate. There was also the fact that on days off there was no way that any law enforcement officer was mentally prepared to defend themselves as adequately as usual. Being on high alert all the time was too draining. If he kept his head, he had a chance of making it out.

He weighed the risk of getting someone's attention against the risk that the man would hear him, stop the car somewhere and possibly kill him. No matter the risk of incurring the man's further wrath, it was worth trying to get a passerby's attention, but there'd be no point in trying to attract attention by yelling and banging against the trunk lid when the surrounding noise was so loud. The man would have to stop at lights somewhere and that would be his chance. There was no glow in the dark lever to release the trunk so the easy way out was not an option. If the car was an older model it likely wouldn't have anything to open the trunk from the inside. However if it was newer, there was still the possibility of a button or a lever or something, but he'd have to find it. If he couldn't find one he'd try to get to the brake lights and, if that failed, into a better position to defend himself or escape when his abductor opened the trunk. And, maybe, just maybe, he was stupid enough to have left Don's cell and gun on him.

Tied as his hands were, at least the man had had some mercy by tying them in front of him rather than behind. Still, it was absolute agony to stretch his arms out to try to reach his pocket. Each painful inch threatened to return him to unconsciousness. The slow journey revealed what he'd already expected: both his gun and his phone were gone. Not surprisingly, his captor was smarter than a garden snail.

Don started a slow exploration of the trunk, but his thoughts focused mainly on the who in this situation, not the where. There was something familiar about his abductor. After some thought, Don was fairly certain that he'd seen him in the sporting goods store when he was looking in the window; which would explain the bat and what felt like jumprope that tied his hands. However, it didn't explain how the man knew him. He could be some grieving relative that he'd had to break bad news to, someone he sent to prison or just someone that he'd run into at some point during his daily life. Don stopped moving, the ache in his arm, chest and head reaching an almost unbearable level. A mantra of curses repeated themselves in his brain until he no longer felt like passing out. There was no use in saying them aloud, it was energy his body needed and air he couldn't waste.

Having not found anything to open the trunk from the inside, he slowly inched over, caterpillar-like, to where one of the brake lights should be. Scrunching his upper body into as small a ball as possible, he got his hands to the right level without moving his arm much. The area in front of the brake light was smooth with a thin indent around it forming the edge of the panel. Sliding his almost non-existent nails into the recess, he pulled towards him. His fingers lost their grip, skittering painfully off the surface. Determined, he tried again, with the same result. Four more attempts proved that the panel wasn't going to come off and that his body could feel more pain, which he wouldn't have believed possible. The ends of his fingers felt like they were cracked and bleeding. Frustrated and exhausted, he relaxed his head against the carpet and listened to the noise on the street again.

Dad would be worried. The movie had to have started by now and he'd worry when Don wasn't there. He'd try calling Don, and when he didn't get any answer, he'd probably go to the car. He'd be able to see that the groceries were packed in and the car was still there—Don hadn't rushed off to some urgent situation. Hopefully, there'd be some sign of a struggle and Alan would call the police or the Bureau. There were surveillance cameras in the parking lot, giving them a chance of seeing what happened, as long as the car was not in one of the blind spots.

Then they'd just need to find him before anything worse happened. And before his family and Robin died of stress-induced heart attacks. This was too close on the heels of his stabbing and Amita's kidnapping, and he knew how much everyone had fallen apart on both occasions. At least his stabbing had also proven that David would lead the team well under such stress. Don just wished that he didn't have to prove it again so soon. Don definitely wasn't enjoying being the unluckiest FBI agent in LA. One life-threatening event per year was one too many, two was heading into TV melodrama territory.

The weird thing was that the little he'd seen of his abductor didn't quite seem to fit. He didn't seem like a man who could coldly kidnap anybody, let alone a federal agent. If he was to have any success at talking himself out of this—assuming he would get the opportunity to try—he needed to understand why the hell this had happened.

If anything, the man had looked more like a victim than anything else. So maybe he was one, or someone he knew was one. Grief pushed people past their breaking point into territory that they otherwise would never dream about going. Grief could drive a man to kill just as much as anger could.

And that was something that he shouldn't be thinking about. Thinking that he was going to die would almost guarantee it. Charlie would be prattling on about statistics and probabilities or something if he was there, and Larry would be reminding them that you could never discount the human in the equation. Don could practically hear the argument in his head: whiteboard markers at ten paces at dawn.

Feeling like he could move again, he started inching backwards. Maybe some solid kicks would do some damage to the panel covering the other brake light. A few minutes worth of that proved that either he couldn't kick very hard or it was very solid plastic. Steel toe boots would probably have made a big difference.

The car shrieked to a stop and Don was thrown backwards. He grunted and bit his lip as the motion jarred everything that had been causing him pain. The engine was still idling, which meant they weren't at their ultimate destination.

"Hey! Help!"

He kicked the side of the car and repeated the words.

"Call the police! Help!"

He continued screaming the words. There was no point in trying to say his name or give any details, the things that people would be most likely to hear and take notice of was 'help' or 'police'.

He was thrown forward onto his face and the noise overwhelmed everything again.

It wasn't like he'd really expected someone to hear it, stop the car and apprehend his abductor.

He wasn't living in fantasyland.

* * *

_Oh crap._

The angle on the camera wasn't good, it was looking across two rows of cars, but they could see what happened. The man brutally smashed the bat into Don's unmoving body three more times before stopping. David winced on the first hit but managed to restrain his reaction to the others. Any one of the blows Don had suffered could have killed or seriously injured him. As the man dropped the bat and dragged Don off the video screen, anger and panic roiled in his gut. It was the second time he'd watched the minute of footage. He'd called everyone they would need to find Don after the first.

Thanks to Alan's worry they were only thirty minutes behind. Thirty minutes in which the abductor could have killed Don or he could have died from injuries he'd sustained in the initial beating.

"I'll look for other camera angles," the security guard said, glancing briefly at him and then inputting the commands he needed.

"Are there cameras at the exits?" David asked, leaning down to get a closer look at the screens. If they'd left the parking garage maybe they were caught on camera. Having a plate number would make their life much easier.

"Yeah." The man nodded. "I'll bring up everything in the last thirty."

"Thanks," David replied. "Some of our techs will be here soon, they'll help you look."

Stepping out of the room, David stopped for a second to solidify his composure. He was in charge of this and it couldn't matter that this was Don. Just like before. He needed to be a strong and effective leader and present a calm authority to those around him. He needed to speak to Mr Eppes without letting either of their worry reduce his effectiveness.

He walked down the short hall to the manager's office. Alan was sitting on a blue sofa, his head resting in his hands. He looked up at the footsteps and attempted to stand, his forehead creased with worry. The sofa resisted his efforts, sucking him back down into its sunken depths. David waved him down and pulled forward a chair. He sat down and leaned forward, pressing his hands against each other in a pose that under other circumstances would look prayer-like.

"Mr Eppes, someone attacked Don near his car. We don't know where he is, but we're searching the parking garage and if they've left, we'll be able to find out how."

Alan stared at him, a myriad of emotions flitting across his face, foremost fear. "How badly was he hurt? How was he attacked? Is he going to be all right?" His voice shook slightly, shock making him pale. His hands clenched together, fingers worrying at each other. "How could something like this happen again?"

It was no use telling him that most FBI agents would never be badly hurt in their career, and even fewer would end up kidnapped. Alan already knew that, but it didn't help when a loved one was one of the anomalies. "We don't know how badly he was hurt, but the man who took him attacked him with a baseball bat. We're doing everything we can to find him, believe me." He gave Alan a moment to gather himself. "Mr Eppes, did you see anything suspicious when you were shopping? Anyone hanging around, anyone staring at you both?"

Alan shook his head, before stopping mid-shake. "Wait, there was one thing. A woman ran into me, near one of the sports stores. She didn't even apologise."

"Okay, we'll look into that. There wasn't anything else? Anything that just didn't seem right, made you take a second glance?" David narrowed his gaze, focussing on Alan's face and looking to see whether anything twigged, even subconsciously.

Alan thought for a few seconds before shaking his head.

"What about Don? Did he look around a lot, focus on one thing, seem suspicious or preoccupied?" Even if Alan hadn't picked up anything, maybe Don had.

The head shook again, before Alan paused, tilting his head to the side contemplatively.

"What, Mr Eppes?"

"He got distracted outside the sports store, looking in the window. He zoned out, didn't hear me talking, or see the woman who ran into me. That couldn't mean anything, could it?" Alan's eyebrows were knitted together in distress. Not only was his son hurt and missing, but he didn't think he was being helpful with finding him; a difficult position for a father to be in.

"I don't know, but we'll check it out." Alan looked away, struggling to contain his emotions and David looked down. This was going to be hard for all of them, doubly so after having been through something similar only a short time before. "We're going to find him," David stated, reassurance in his voice, even as a tiny voice in the back of his head said that Don was dead and would be dumped out in the desert and they'd never find him. Considering the perp hadn't tried to hide abducting Don, David's instincts contradicted that tiny voice, but he still couldn't completely ignore it. "Have you let Charlie know?"

"I can't," Alan answered. He blinked slowly, his face showing his weariness. "He's on a plane coming back from a conference in Germany."

That could both be a blessing and a curse. It could all be over by the time Charlie landed, but if they needed any of his special expertise he wasn't available.

"When does he land?"

Alan looked at his watch. "In about four hours."

"Agent!"

David looked up, back towards the security office. The guard was calling him, gesturing that he'd found something.

"Go," Alan said, focussing on David again. "Find Donnie."

David got up and joined the security guard back in his office.

"I've got a few more angles," the guard said, placing them up on the screen.

They could see the man dragging Don down a row of cars. The next camera showed him dropping Don to the ground beside a white sedan and unlocking the trunk. It took some effort for the man to manoeuvre him into the trunk, and David winced at the rag-doll limpness of Don's body. He hoped to hell that Don was just unconscious. The man then pulled what looked like rope out of the trunk and did something in its depths. Probably tying Don's hands together, which boded well for Don being alive. He then shut the trunk lid, what looked like Don's cell and gun in his hands, and put them on the front passenger seat. He shut and locked the door before heading away from the car offscreen.

"What the-?" David breathed.

The camera changed again, showing Don's attacker standing at the site of the attack and picking up the bat. He wiped it down with the edge of his shirt, before unlocking Don's suburban and dumping it on the floor beside the backseat. He re-locked the car and then threw the keys away into the next row of cars. Thirty-seconds later he was back at his own car and reversing out of the spot. Another three minutes and a camera at one of the exits recorded him leaving, giving a very clear shot of the plate number. David wrote it down before pulling out his cell.

* * *

"Doesn't it feel like we just did this and then did it again?" Liz rested the side of her head on her hand. "I can't imagine what Alan's going through."

"At least then we knew no one else was going to hurt him," Nikki replied, her mood sombre. She shook her head. "This time we don't even know whether he's still alive. Just like with Amita."

"No, we don't," Liz agreed. "But if anybody can survive this, it's Don. He's too stubborn not to try."

Liz's phone rang. "Warner," she answered. She sat the phone between her ear and shoulder and started typing. "Okay, yep, got it. The car's registered to a Robert Henshaw." She brought up the still off the security video that she had been emailed and compared it to the DMV photo. "Looks like he's our guy. He's got no priors, but we'll look deeper into his background. I'm sending you his address."

She ended the call. "What do you think?"

"I think we've got a match," Nikki agreed.

They'd gotten their first break. Now they could get to work.

* * *

David's cell rang. The FBI techs were looking at the security video, seeing whether they could track Don and Alan's movements throughout the mall, Colby was checking out the crime scene, which meant that there was no reason to not go back to the office.

"Colby, what have you got?" The phone was on loudspeaker, as he was driving.

"There's blood, and the trail heads down the row. We've found Don's car keys and got the bat out of the car. It still has the price sticker on it. It looks like there might still be some prints on the bat, even though he wiped it down. There's not much else."

"Okay. Make sure they know this is a rush," David replied, turning into a street to his left.

"Will do."

"When you're done, head to Henshaw's address and check out the area. Be careful, we don't want to spook him if he's home. I'll let you know when we get something else." David pressed the button to end the call.

There wasn't anything else he could do at the security office. Alan had called Amita in lieu of Charlie. They couldn't even tell Charlie what was going on, let alone see whether he had any ideas to help, but, if they needed help they had Amita and Larry. In the meantime, Amita had also offered to drive Alan home and stay with him. With the little information they had so far, David didn't think that the mathematicians could help yet. David had also called Robin's office, but she was in court on an important case, and he'd made the decision not to disturb her, just left a message for her to call him back. It would probably get him yelled at later, but he thought it was the right decision to make.

His thoughts returned to the little they knew. They couldn't track either Don or Henshaw's cells; odds were Henshaw had destroyed them somewhere along the way. Using your own car to abduct a federal agent in a well-surveilled parking garage screamed of something that wasn't planned and certainly wasn't professional. While Henshaw had wiped down the bat, there'd been no thought about the fact that he'd been caught on camera. Add in that the bat looked like it'd been recently purchased, possibly even that day, and it looked more and more like this whole thing was spur of the moment rather than premeditated. It was good in one way. Henshaw was making mistakes that made it more likely that they'd catch him, but bad in another. He wasn't predictable, was probably acting out of anger, and didn't know what he was doing.

And that could be very dangerous for Don. David pulled into the parking garage almost on autopilot, and made his way quickly upstairs, noting the looks of sympathy he received from the agents he passed.

Nikki and Liz weren't at their desks, but he could see them in the conference room. "What have you got?" he asked as he walked through the door.

"Turns out that Robert Henshaw's wife Lesley was killed in a home invasion five years ago," Nikki said, bringing up the photos of the crime scene beside a photo of Henshaw. The woman's head had been bashed in, her face pretty much obliterated. Would have taken a lot of rage to inflict that much damage. "It was a serial, the guy never found. Get this," a photo of a table covered in a lacy pale blue tablecloth and with a used plate, glass and condiments sitting on it appeared, "he'd sit down and have a meal in their house before he left."

That was a definite signature and out of the norm for the average home invader.

"He left DNA, but there never was anything to check it against. Hit eleven houses in LA before dropping out of sight. The Bureau got called in after house number five was hit and it was Don's case," Nikki continued. "Henshaw's wife was in house number seven."

"So it's personal," David said.

Things just got a whole lot messier. A man angered over the fact that justice was never done in regard to the violent death of his wife—that could get very, very ugly quick. With five years between the last time Don looked at the file and now, odds were he'd barely remember the victim in question. There was no doubt in David's mind that he'd remember the case, it was unusual enough to stick in the memory, but the specific details and one particular victim were not likely to be something retained.

"Looks like," Liz agreed from her perch on a desk. "Have you heard anything more from the techs?"

David shook his head and then blew his breath out. "Has Henshaw got other family?" They needed as much information about the man, his relationship to his wife, and current state of mind as possible.

"He's an only child," Nikki answered. "No kids of his own, either. Father is dead, mother lives in New Jersey."

"We've been trying to get a hold of her," Liz added. "But no answer so far."

"What about the wife?" If this was all about Lesley, as it appeared to be, Henshaw might be more likely to listen to his wife's mother or father.

A few keystrokes and Nikki had the answer. "Both parents still alive, plus a sister. Parents live in San Marino."

"Would explain why he was at the same mall Don was at." David thought for a minute. "What about a job?"

"Before Lesley died, he was an accountant. Now he works at a video store, night shift mainly. I spoke to the manager, she said that he was an okay worker, but generally quite depressed. He could get angry, but never anything physical. Well, other than the one time that someone threatened another co-worker with a knife; the guy ended up needing ten stitches and Henshaw didn't have a scratch on him," Liz replied.

"Okay, we need—"

Nikki's phone rang, interrupting David's thought.

"Betancourt," she answered. "Uh huh, yeah, that matches the plate number." She pulled a piece of paper and pen towards her and started scribbling. "Uh huh, seriously? Why the hell did it take her that long? Yeah, okay, thanks." She put the phone down and looked up at Liz and David, her expression serious. "That was LAPD, a woman called 911 a few minutes ago saying that she thought she heard someone yelling help from the trunk of a car about fifteen minutes ago. She only got a partial plate, but it matches Henshaw's."

"Why on earth didn't she call 911 when it happened?" Liz asked, angry. Their best lead and it was already fifteen minutes old. If they'd known about it at the time, they might have caught up to the car and ended it.

"Apparently she wasn't sure of what she heard with the noise on the street, and nobody else seemed to notice it. A friend convinced her that she couldn't take the risk of not calling. Now," Nikki pulled up a map on the screen, "she saw the car right about here." She pointed at a busy intersection.

"And Henshaw's house is here," David indicated. "Not very far away. Maybe he was heading home."

"Maybe," Nikki agreed. "Particularly if this was spur of the moment. He wouldn't know where to take Don."

"Or what to do with him afterwards," Liz finished.

The three agents exchanged unhappy glances, hoping that their boss would come out of this one okay.

* * *

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 3)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

* * *

It was quiet, other than for the ticking and pinging of engine parts cooling down. The car had gone over a bump and slowed, before coming to a stop. The engine had been turned off and Don had heard a mechanical grinding sound; an automatic garage door going back down, he'd guessed. After that, nothing had happened.

In between almost passing out every time his arm got bumped on the journey (and actually passing out one memorable time), he'd been thinking through his options. While in the trunk, he didn't have a chance. Even if he could manage to kick his abductor in the face, he'd still be stuck in the trunk with the hard task of getting out. No, his best chance was to pretend he was still unconscious, even if it was likely to hurt being dragged out of the trunk or possibly return him to that state.

He could let his abductor know he was conscious and thereby reduce the pain factor, but it ran the risk of the other man deciding that Don was better off knocked out, which was not a good plan.

Once he was out of the trunk, a well-timed kick might do enough damage to allow him to get away. He had to shove to the back of his mind all the ways it could, and would likely, go wrong. It would help knowing why exactly this had happened; without that knowledge he couldn't act in his own best interest. But he wasn't dying today. He wasn't.

There was a thud; it reverberated through the body of the car. The man had shut his door and was out of the car. Don closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly and relax. Faking sleep or unconsciousness successfully was never an easy task, particularly when you had adrenaline running through your system, not that he'd really had a reason to fake the latter before for more than a few seconds. You could gain useful gossip about friends and relatives when they thought you were still out of it.

He heard the key turn in the trunk lock and the release that always popped trunk lids open slightly. Light started falling on his face, increasing in intensity as his abductor opened the lid slowly. Don tried not to react, to just lay there and play dead as his abductor studied him. It felt like it was minutes before there were hands on his shoulders, lifting him up over the lip of the trunk. He'd passed the initial test, but the hard part was now.

The man used gravity to do most of the work, pulling Don's upper and then lower body out of the trunk and lowering his shoulders to the ground. Those last few steps were going to be a doozy. The minute he'd been lifted, pain had ramped up through his arm and chest. It had taken all of his concentration not to flinch or whimper or tense his muscles up. His head was also throbbing, not appreciating lolling almost upside down. His shoulders were lowered to the cold floor just before his feet thumped off the trunk of the car, picking up speed over the distance to the floor and hitting hard, along with his hips and legs. That hurt. A lot. A hell of a lot.

The man paused, probably listening and watching intently, as Don had just whimpered in pain. Every dirty word Don had learnt over the years paraded through his head, helping him to keep quiet. He needed to wait until the man was off-guard again before attempting his move. To do so now would lose any potential advantage he had.

A finger poked at his broken arm, hard. There was no helping it; it hurt too much not to make a noise or move. Before he'd even opened his eyes, Don was moving. He swung his legs around and knocked his abductor's feet out from under him, sending the man crashing to the ground. Don desperately swung his head around, taking in his surroundings. Two doors, one probably into the house, plus the garage door. Both ordinary doors would probably be locked. There wasn't anything he could quickly use to cut the rope tying his hands or as an easy weapon against his attacker. The only real option he had was to press the button to open the garage door and hope he'd be able to distract the man enough to run under it and escape. He ran to the button, hearing the man getting up behind him, and pressed it with his shoulder. The welcome mechanical sound started, the door lifting slowly.

He turned back to face his abductor and dodged to the side to avoid the fist that was headed for his face. It skimmed his cheekbone, pushing him off balance. He staggered and ducked the next blow, before lowering his head and charging the man's chest like a bull, putting all his weight behind it. There was a satisfying 'oof' of breathlessness and pain from his assailant as he fell back and Don used the opportunity to run for the opening being created by the garage door, ignoring the whirling in his head. He could see a startled woman on the other side of the street staring at him, mail held loosely in her hand and looking like she was about ready to bolt for her phone any minute.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Help!"

At that the woman did bolt, running frantically into her house and shutting her own front door.

There was a chance the odds had finally shifted back in his favour.

He'd almost ducked under the garage door when a weight hit him hard from behind, taking him to the ground. Don blacked out as his arms and head hit the pavement.

* * *

Regaining consciousness was starting to feel like the only thing Don had done all day. Repeatedly. It was his own hellish version of _Groundhog Day_. Every part of his body hurt and he was so tired of the pain. The nosedive to the ground had scraped up his face and the back of his hands by the feel of it, and his knees were undoubtedly bruised. He slowly opened the eye that wasn't swollen shut and snuck a look at his surroundings. Everything looked a bit hazy, which combined with his bad headache indicated he probably had a concussion. He was in a very ordinary dining room adjoining a living room, tied to a chair at his wrists and ankles, and his abductor was sitting across from him. Don opened his one working eye fully and pulled his head up, knowing he'd been found out. The room tilted a bit at the movement, confirming further his self-diagnosis.

He took the opportunity to properly assess the room. There were windows, but they were shuttered; the only light was artificial. There were large photos on the wall of his assailant with a woman, the intimacy of the shots suggesting a girlfriend or wife, and also telling him that he was in his abductor's home. He felt the other man's glare at his attention to them and returned his gaze to his captor. There was a story there, possibly even an explanation for the current situation. He didn't think that it was a good time to ask questions, though. The man was clearly very pissed off and Don did not want that taken out on him, not with the shape he was in already.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" the man asked, his tone bitter. His hands were resting in his lap, the casual gesture unmistakably tense.

Don couldn't lie, even though he knew that his answer was going to provoke more rage.

"No, I don't." Don made sure to keep his voice level, unafraid but not adversarial. _Don't show fear to the bear, but don't poke it with a stick either._

As expected, it made the man angrier. He got up from his chair in a smooth motion, his body held tight and tense. The man stalked around the table, stopping beside one of the photos. He reached out a finger and stroked the woman's face, his back to Don losing its tension and sagging with grief.

There was a sniff, restrained tears, and then the man spoke. "My name is Robert Henshaw." Henshaw turned around, his eyes narrowed on Don's face. "Do you even remember my name?" The words were a challenge, one that he knew that Don would likely fail, and that knowledge was present in his voice.

"No," Don answered again.

"What about my wife?" Henshaw looked up at the photo beside him, directing Don's own eyes. "Do you recognise her? Her name was Lesley, if that helps jog your memory." Henshaw's gaze was unyielding, condemning Don's awaited reply.

There was a familiarity to the face and the name, just as there had been some recognition when Don had first seen Henshaw. But he couldn't place exactly where or why he knew the couple.

"No," Don said a final time, looking back at Henshaw. Henshaw stalked forward, and if Don was reading his intentions right, Don's pain was going to increase. A stinging backhand jarred Don's head to the side, leaving his ears ringing and blood running down his lip.

Henshaw backed off, his eyes hard.

"You see, this is what I find so frustrating, Agent Eppes." The grief had well and truly left the building, replaced only by anger and hardness. "You don't remember me or my wife, but I can never _ever_ forget you."

There was nothing Don could say to that. It was a given in his job. He was present at some of the worst moments in people's lives, the moments that they never would be able to forget, and yet at some point he would forget them. It had been a hard thing to learn to deal with initially: not letting yourself get wrapped up in people's pain and realising that they would always remember you, but your memories of them would more than likely fade under the weight of the cases that would follow. No 'I'm sorry for your loss' would ever be good enough.

When he didn't respond, Henshaw broke the silence. "No 'I'm sorry', no 'it's part of the job'? I'm disappointed."

"Nothing I can say will change anything."

Don was expecting another outburst of physical violence, but it didn't come. Instead, Henshaw studied him, and it felt like Don was under the microscope, an experiment that had given an unexpected result and would be taken apart to find out why. He thought he'd earned some tiny measure of respect from the man for not giving false sympathy or excuses.

"You're right," Henshaw agreed. "Nothing can change what's happened." He took a breath, looking down at his hands. "Nothing can change the fact that you don't remember what happened to my wife. Nothing can change the fact that my wife is dead. I accept that."

The words were too blasé, and it rang alarm bells in Don's brain. Accepting that your wife was dead, accepting that you couldn't change things that had happened in the past, that just left things in the present and future that you could change. And when you had an FBI agent who obviously had something to do with your wife's death sitting tied up in your house, it didn't look good for the aforementioned FBI agent. Admittedly, it had never looked good for Don, but there were multiple reasons to abduct someone, particularly a law enforcement officer, that didn't involve killing them. True, a number of them weren't much better than being killed, but Don was starting to think that the future that Henshaw was envisaging for him ended very abruptly and painfully.

"But I guess it would be—" Henshaw paused, searching for the right word, "—_cruel_ to leave you in the dark as to what all this is about. Because, after all, this is about _you_ now. You need to understand your crime before you're convicted of it."

Don tried to keep as calm and still as possible, but inside he was panicking. The more Henshaw spoke, the more Don wanted someone knocking the door down right that minute. Henshaw wanted revenge for whatever it was that Don did wrong, or that Henshaw imagined Don did wrong, and it was going to mean his death. There was now no doubt in Don's mind about that. And once Henshaw told him what his 'crime' was, that would be it. He needed to stall in hopes that someone would start hostage negotiations or attempt entry into the house. Negotiation would hopefully get Henshaw's mind off the path it was on, and it could give enough of a reprieve to make all the difference.

"What would your wife think of this, of you?"

It was a gamble that ran the risk of provoking so much anger that Henshaw would lash out and continue lashing out and damn the consequences. But Don thought there was also a good chance that it would divert him enough to save some precious minutes. There was a reason Henshaw had not killed him in the parking lot, even if the man hadn't realised it consciously at the time. He needed his moment to speak, to outline his charges and condemn the person he held responsible, and Don hoped that would be enough to prevent him completely going off the deep end.

"My wife?" Henshaw said, raising his eyebrows. He shook his head a little, like he was trying to shake out a voice or an image. "You don't get to speak about my wife." The vitriol in the words was unsurprising. Henshaw looked away, clearly discomforted with having the idea shoved in his face. "Lesley would hate this," he said quietly, before looking back at Don. His voice rose. "Okay, yeah, of course my wife would hate this. She'd have to be a psychopath not to. But she's not here to hate it...and that's the point."

Don left him to stew in his own thoughts. Everything he'd seen, particularly the fact that they were sitting in Henshaw's own house, led him to believe that none of this was really planned. The rage was obviously very real for Henshaw to have abducted him in the first place, but the abduction and various assaults would have produced an added adrenaline high and feeling of euphoria. Given enough time Henshaw would come crashing back down into reality and that would be when Don had a greater chance of making it out alive. It came with its own added problems, guilt over his actions for one, and depending on Henshaw's underlying rage it might not be enough for him to let Don go and surrender, but it was why time was so important. Don needed to string out every second as long as he could to give the police or FBI time to show up and to give himself enough time to possibly talk his way out.

There was an exhalation from Henshaw and then his eyes focussed on Don again. The anger simmered below the depths, but seemed to be under control, at least for that moment. "Do you want to know what happened to my wife?" The man almost seemed curious as to what Don's reply would be.

"Yes."

This time Don let some compassion bleed through in his voice. Not enough to be considered patronising or condescending, but enough to indicate that he wasn't just some government suit who didn't give a crap. He was a person who hated seeing another human being suffering.

"I was an accountant and I often had to work late. That night I was working until eight. I got home, here," he gestured around at the house, "came in, just like normal, from the garage. I, ah, could see that the table was set. Lesley usually had it ready for me, whatever she had for dinner would be waiting in the oven. I called out hi to her, started talking about what a pain in the ass my boss was being as I went to wash my hands in the bathroom. She often didn't...I didn't even think it was odd that she didn't respond to what I was saying because she was used to me venting about my day, she'd just wait until the end to give me a kiss and tell me she was glad I was home. Then she'd tell me all about the stupid customers she had to put up with at Wal-Mart." A wistful and aching smile flitted across his face at the remembrance. "Her stories were usually worse than mine."

Henshaw looked down, his jaw working to restrain his emotions. "Then I came back in here and saw that the plate and glass that were sitting on the table were used. I said, 'Hey, Les, you forget to put your plate in the sink or something?' but there was no reply. And...and then I saw the blood on the wall. She was around the other side of the table, just over there." He gestured to Don's right with his chin. "I, uh, could barely tell it was her, that it was my Lesley. There was _so much blood_ and her face..." He stopped, clearly shaken by the remembrance, and drew in a few shaky breaths. "She wasn't Lesley anymore.

"You know, it wasn't until the police got here and they asked that I even realised that there was anything missing. My TV was gone, but I didn't even notice. Then the FBI showed up..._you_ showed up."

Don remembered the case now. Not Henshaw or his wife specifically, but he remembered the case. "The plate and glass, they weren't your wife's."

"No. They were used by the man who broke into my house and murdered my wife. He ate a meal in my _home_ while my _wife lay dead on the floor_." Henshaw ground the words out, anger, outrage and horror present in his voice. "What kind of animal does that? What kind of person does that, all for a TV and-and some jewellery? _Tell me, Mister FBI Agent_."

"A very sick one." And they'd never caught him.

Henshaw slammed his hand on the table and Don jumped.

"Why the hell didn't you find him?" Henshaw shouted. "_Fourteen_ people died and you never found him. Six more people died after my wife and you let them. You were responsible." The man was shaking in anger, pointing his finger at Don. "You let my wife die!"

Silence reigned for a few seconds. Don used the time to think and let Henshaw simmer down. Responding with anger of his own wasn't going to help, and there wasn't too much he could say to Henshaw's accusations, to a man who was still holding onto his wife so tight that he was living in the house she was murdered in.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Henshaw asked quietly, his head shaking and his voice filled with emotion.

"We couldn't," Don admitted. "He left behind DNA, but no fingerprints. His DNA wasn't in the system, so we couldn't use it to find out who he was. There were no witnesses, nothing on surveillance anywhere." He shrugged, wincing when it pulled at everything that hurt. _Very bright, Eppes_, he thought. "We tried, but we couldn't."

"And why did he stop?"

The words were loaded with meaning and a minefield for Don. He needed to tiptoe through it and hope that he didn't set off a bomb. Because from everything that had been said, the most likely reason would probably set Henshaw off.

"He could have been killed...or arrested for something else and he's been in jail."

Henshaw laughed slightly, an outgoing breath at something that wasn't very funny. "I think you're forgetting another option, Agent."

And Henshaw called him on it.

"He could have moved somewhere else and started again," Don confirmed quietly.

"How many more people have to die because of your incompetence? How many other people have to suffer?"

There was the rising anger that Don was expecting. Other people going through what Henshaw had was definitely a trigger point, and one which Don wished he could warn anybody who was going to try to negotiate with him about. Don kept silent, anything he could say would only enflame Henshaw's righteous anger.

The man moved forward and leaned into Don's personal space, his face close. Don's mind flashed back to the feel of the knife going into his chest, the unknown face right in front of his own. He forced the unwelcome feeling and the images that were running through his head aside, his panic rising again. If there was a time he couldn't afford to let that experience rule his brain, it was now. Always easier said than done.

"How would you feel if it was your wife?" Henshaw looked at Don's hand, seeing the lack of ring. "Or your girlfriend? How would you feel?"

"It almost has been," Don answered, letting the huskiness of his voice show his honesty. It didn't matter that Robin hadn't technically been his girlfriend at the time, it was close enough.

The gaze on his face narrowed, looking for the truth in Don's own eyes and face. There was a flicker of surprise when he determined that Don was being honest and he backed off, stepping a few feet away. Don felt relief at the increased distance between them.

"Was the person caught?"

"Yes," Don said. Trying to make a connection and give something for Henshaw to empathise with, he expanded his statement. "Just as they were about to kill her."

"What if they hadn't been caught? What if they were still out there," Henshaw gestured at the window, "how would you feel?"

There was only one way he could answer that and Don felt what little control and connection he'd created slip out of reach. "Angry, upset."

"Like you wanted justice."

It was a statement, not a question, but Don answered it anyway. "Yes."

Henshaw nodded, his lip curling, satisfied with the way his questioning and confession had gone.

"But not like this."

It took a moment for his whispered words to click with his captor, but when they did, Henshaw took a menacing step forward, rage filling his face. Don had a moment to think 'oh shit' before the first punch landed, breaking his nose. The blows kept landing and the blackness came. He hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, never stepping fully over the twilight barrier but wishing he could, and then at last Henshaw stopped.

He heard a ringing noise, and this time it wasn't his ears. There was noise, hovering at the edge of his consciousness for a time. Then something was held to the side of his head. The noise was louder and finally resolved into a voice, saying his name, asking him if he was okay.

"David?"

* * *

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 4)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

_Thank you to the anonymous reviewers._

* * *

"Thank you for coming in," Liz said, gesturing to two seats around the table.

Lesley Henshaw's parents, Jan and Gary King, settled themselves down in the chairs and looked anxiously at Liz. The couple were in their late 70s, although they looked older than their ages. Jan walked with the aid of a walking stick and Gary had hearing aids; he'd told Liz she'd have to speak up if she wanted him to hear a word she said.

"Anything we can do to help find who killed our daughter," Jan said, picking at a tissue in her hand.

Liz winced as she sat down opposite them. She hadn't intended to give them false hope, but if it meant that they had rushed to the FBI office, all the better. "I'm afraid you got the wrong impression, Mrs King. This isn't about your daughter; it's about your son-in-law, Robert."

"Robert," Gary said, glancing at his wife. "We only saw him earlier this afternoon-"

"Is he okay?" Jan interrupted, clearly anxious at the thought that something else could have happened to a member of her extended family. Her fingers shredded the tissue. "We just had lunch with him, and he was _fine_."

"Mr and Mrs King," Liz said, "Robert has assaulted a FBI agent and abducted him."

"What, no! Gary..." Jan looked at her husband and reached out for his hands.

He put his own hands out, squeezing hers tight.

"I don't believe it...how could..." She shook her head. "No, I don't believe it. He couldn't have done something like that. He wouldn't have, not Robert. You must have made a mistake."

Liz pulled the still from the surveillance video out of the folder in her hands and placed it down in front of them. "There's no mistake, Mrs King," she said gently.

"Oh, God. That's him, that's him." Jan put a hand to her mouth, the crumpled tissue pressed below her nose, tears springing to her eyes.

Gary nodded, gulping back his own reaction and patting his wife's other hand.

"What has he done?" Mrs King's question was rhetorical. "He's hurt and kidnapped a FBI agent?"

Liz nodded. "Yes, Special Agent Don Eppes."

There was a shared glance between the couple. "Why do I know that name?" Jan asked, her brow furrowing.

"He was the FBI agent in charge of...Lesley's case," Gary reminded her, having to pause before he spoke his daughter's name. There was so much sadness in his voice, even after five years.

"He was," Liz confirmed, to an audible cry of shock from Jan. "And I need your help, to help Robert."

"Anything," Gary said for both of them.

Liz perched her hands in front of her, concentration fully on the couple. "Okay. How was he when you saw him today?"

"He seemed fine," Jan said. "Maybe a little quieter than normal to begin with, but then he loosened up. He helped me make lunch and we sat and talked. He was...it was a good day, actually. Sometimes you have to watch what you say with him about Lesley, but he was fine today."

"How do you have to watch what you say?" Liz asked. "Like does he get angry or shut down?"

"He just gets quiet sometimes, and he might snap at you if he's not in the mood to hear it," Gary answered. "But today, he was joking about her, talking about when they first got together."

"Do you think he's been depressed?"

"No..." Jan looked at Gary again, her face contorting as she thought. "No...I don't know...maybe? He wasn't in a good place after Lesley died, but that's natural; we weren't really either."

To Liz, that was an emphatic yes. There was a knock at the door and she looked up. Another agent, Brian McNamara, who had been pulled in to help was standing at the door, gesturing for her to step out.

"Excuse me for a minute," Liz said, standing and walking to the door. She stepped outside and closed the door to the room, glancing back to see what the Kings were doing before giving Brian her full attention.

"We got a phone call from the LAPD," he said. "One of Henshaw's neighbours saw him fighting with another man in his garage just a few minutes ago. The man's hands were tied and he looked hurt. The description fits Agent Eppes. He called out for help, the neighbour ran inside to call the police, and when she next got to a window they were both gone, the garage door closed. She didn't hear a car leave, so looks like they're still in there."

She breathed out a sigh of relief. Don was still alive. Their assault and abduction had just turned into a probable hostage situation. She looked at her watch. Colby would nearly be there, and David and Nikki not far behind. "You've called David and Colby?"

Brian nodded.

"Okay, thanks," she said, turning back to the Kings. They were watching her through the window, worry and anticipation clear on their faces. Their lives were just about to get a whole lot more complicated and stressful. She opened the door and walked back in and sat back down in the chair she was sitting in before. The Kings were holding hands again, the reassurance each gained from the grip clear.

"Robert is at his house, with Agent Eppes."

There was an audible moan of distress from Jan. "We're going to do everything we can to end this peacefully, but I need your help for that. What can you tell me about Robert's house?" Liz asked.

Jan pressed her lips together, trying to hold in tears. "I don't know what might help you."

"He's got security shutters on every window," Gary said slowly. "And the doors into the house are reinforced. There's one from the garage, and the front door. After..." He stopped. "He did that after."

"That's very helpful, Mr King," Liz encouraged, as she wrote it down. "Does he have an alarm system?"

"No. But if he's home, he'll have the shutters down in the rooms he's not in. Lesley's death..."

Liz could understand her death having made him paranoid. "What about his phone? The phone in the house, I mean. Does he have a cordless?"

"No, he's just got the main phone, said that most people call his cell anyway, so what was the point in having a cordless in the house? It's in the dining room, on the wall that divides it from the kitchen."

"How long is the cord?"

Gary thought for a moment. "Only a few feet, but there's another foot or two if you detach it from the wall."

The room went quiet as Liz wrote.

"It was off the hook when they found Lesley. She was only a few feet away."

Liz looked up at Jan's words and gave her a sad smile. "You've both been very helpful."

"What happens now?" Gary asked.

"We try to talk to Robert, see what he wants and try to talk him out. We'd appreciate it if you could stay for a while, in case we need more help." Liz could see that they were both very upset by what they had heard and by the reminder of everything that had happened with their daughter. "I can get someone to bring you some coffee or tea, something to eat?"

"We're fine at the moment," Gary answered for them both.

"I'll keep you up-to-date," Liz promised, picking up the pad of paper, pen and folder.

"Agent?" Jan asked as she got to the door.

"Yes?" she answered, turning back to face them.

"Has Agent Eppes got a family? A wife or kids?"

Liz could see how important the question was to her, to someone who had already lost a daughter and was losing someone she regarded as a son, no matter what way the hostage situation turned out. "He's got a girlfriend, and he's very close to his brother and father."

"Thank you," Jan whispered as Liz left the room.

She stopped and looked back. Gary had enfolded his wife in his arms, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as his wife sobbed.

* * *

LAPD were evacuating houses and cordoning off the area when Colby arrived in Henshaw's neighbourhood. There were already gawkers and news vans outside the barriers, reporters doing their bit for the networks, even though all they could know for certain was that there was something going on, and none of the specifics. A couple of news cameras followed his car as he flashed his badge and was allowed past the barriers. Now they'd know that the FBI was involved in whatever was going on.

He parked where he was directed and asked a patrol officer for the person in charge.

Captain Michelle Ruiz was in her early 40s and clearly someone who was very used to being obeyed. Her sharp eyes assessed him as he walked over to join her.

"Special Agent Colby Granger, FBI," Colby introduced himself, holding his hand out to shake. Ruiz shook it, short and sharp, before dropping his hand.

"Captain Michelle Ruiz, LAPD. From what I understand, that's one of your men in there?" She nodded in the general direction of Henshaw's house. They couldn't see it from their position; once HRT and David arrived they'd move in closer to start the negotiations.

"Yeah, Special Agent Don Eppes. He's supervisor of the Violent Crimes Squad."

Ruiz whistled. "Sure picked an important one, didn't he?" She gestured for him to follow her to a surveillance van. "We're still evacuating houses, but we're almost done. I've got Vanessa Hogan waiting for you; she's the neighbour who called the police. Figured you might want to talk to her yourself."

"Thanks," Colby replied as they climbed in the van. "Has there been any movement from the house? There's shutters on all the windows, from what we were told by Henshaw's in-laws. Are they down?"

"No and yes," Ruiz answered. She moved to a small table in the van and indicated their position on a street map. "We're here." She dragged her finger across to a dead-end street and indicated halfway along it. "Henshaw's house is here. We're waiting on the blueprints for the house. Your guy will be negotiating?"

Colby continued studying the map. They were lucky in one way that the shutters were down, made their approach much easier as Henshaw wouldn't be able to see them coming. Not lucky in another—wouldn't be as easy to assault the house. "Yeah, Agent David Sinclair. He should be here very soon, along with HRT."

"We have any idea whether he's armed?"

That was a question that Colby had been wondering about. They had no idea what Henshaw had done with Don's cell and gun. "He could be, Agent Eppes was armed when he was taken."

Ruiz nodded, taking the information in. She cut to the chase. "Best guess as to what he wants?"

Colby tilted his head to the side in a half shrug. "Revenge? To be heard? We're not sure."

"Okay." The captain waved her arm in the direction of the door. "I'll introduce you to the neighbour."

Vanessa Hogan was standing with her arms wrapped around her chest, clearly very eager to get out of the limelight after being questioned a number of times.

"Ms Hogan, this is Agent Granger of the FBI," Ruiz introduced them, before tapping Colby on the arm and nodding to him. The captain then moved off to coordinate the running of the scene again.

"I know you've already told the police what you saw, but it would be really helpful if I could hear it," Colby said.

The arms tightened further around her chest, but Vanessa nodded. "I just can't believe this, you know? After Lesley... You don't expect this in your street."

Colby nodded his understanding, encouraging her on.

"I was picking up my mail. I knew that Robert had gotten home a while before, I'd seen his car in the drive. The garage door started opening and I was going to go over and talk to him; I don't even remember what about now." She shrugged and shook her head, her eyebrows disappearing under her bangs. "But the garage door opened and there was another man with him. They were fighting. The other man, his hands were tied and he ran into Robert like a bull. Robert fell back, and the other man tried to get away. It looked like he had a black eye and there was some blood. He was trying to run for the garage door when he saw me, yelled out for help. Then I ran inside to call the police, and by the time I got to a window the garage door was closed again."

"You didn't hear a car?" Colby questioned.

Vanessa shook her head decisively. "No, I don't think he left again. I'd have heard it. I never would have thought that Robert could hurt a fly. He was always so nice, and helpful. You could count on him to be looking out for everyone else on the street, you know?"

There was only one more thing that Colby thought she might be able to answer. "One last question and then you can go, get a coffee or tea. Did you see any sort of weapon?"

There was another shake of her head.

"Okay, thank you," Colby said. "You've been extremely helpful. The police officer will escort you out past the barriers." The patrol officer nodded at his words and Colby turned away.

Now it was a waiting game.

* * *

"Alan, do you want some tea, or some coffee..." Amita trailed off when Alan didn't look in her direction.

She angled her head to the side, her brow wrinkling as she tried to determine exactly what Alan was looking at. It was a toss up between a photo taken a year ago of Charlie, Don and Alan or a photo of Don by himself, smiling in that way that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and had always made her wonder whether he was flirting, just slightly, when it was directed at her. Harmless flirting, but flirting nonetheless. You couldn't help but smile back when Don was in that sort of mood. It was always a huge juxtaposition to how serious he was most of the time, you almost wouldn't credit it with being the same man. Even with Charlie losing his clearance, the Crystal Hoyle case coming back to haunt Don again, and the stabbing, they'd seen more of those smiles since he'd started dating Robin again than she could remember ever seeing in the previous years.

Alan still didn't turn as she came up beside him and she rested her hand on his shoulder, knowing that the Eppes men weren't very physically demonstrative and Alan was probably only just holding it together. Something more comforting and affectionate could be all it took for him to break, and she knew he wouldn't want that, not while they didn't know what was going on. Charlie was similar in that way, all but dancing away most of the time from her when she'd tried to hug or touch him after Don had been stabbed. It was hard, when it was the main thing she could offer and it wasn't accepted, but she knew that it was the way Charlie dealt with things.

He was going to be devastated when his plane landed. Not being here while it was happening, not being able to help, even when that help was tearing him apart, to share in the worry. He'd gone through this once with Don and then again when she'd been kidnapped. She didn't know whether he could cope a third time. Alan had left a message on his voicemail, asking him to call straight back. The one thing Amita hoped was that Don was found safe and sound before that happened.

Shaking out of his reverie, Alan turned to her and gave her a smile. "You want some coffee?" he asked, obviously not having taken in what she had said.

"Sure." Amita nodded, aware that her voice was way more upbeat than it should have been, compensating.

One last longing look at the photo and Alan put his arm around her waist, guiding her to the kitchen.

She slipped her arm around his back, trying to give him all the mental and emotional support she could.

Alan waved her away when she started to help, and she let him, knowing that the routine would be a comfort for him. She could see the slight tremble in his hands when he got the cups out of the cupboard, the teaspoons out of the drawer. The silence felt oppressive, like she should break it, but she didn't know what to say. Avoid Don and try to find some other topic of conversation that couldn't include Charlie, because that was related to Don? Talk about Don and risk making Alan more anxious than he already was? Make the excuse of having work to do and go and hide behind her laptop in the garage? None of the options felt right but she didn't know what else she could do. So, for the moment, she kept silent.

The coffee was finally ready. Alan handed her a cup, glancing at her face as he did so.

"Thanks," she said, trying not to sound so falsely cheerful this time.

Alan ran his finger around the rim of his cup, his gaze thoughtful. "It's okay, Amita. I'm not going to fall apart if you mention Don's name."

Obviously she'd looked like a deer caught in headlights. She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again, wanting to choose her words carefully. "I just... It's hard to know what to say. With Charlie, when Don was stabbed he wouldn't really let me in." She looked down. "Well, other than at first, when we didn't really know what was going on. But after that..."

"He was Charlie," Alan replied, a slightly wry smile on his face.

"Yeah." She felt an answering smile of her own. "I want to help, Alan, but I'm just not sure how."

"You are helping, just by being here," Alan said. "I'd hate to be alone, no one to talk to, or if there was someone here, someone who doesn't even know Don."

They each contemplated their coffees for a few minutes, the only sound being blown breaths and faint sips and swallows. Amita could see that Alan was a bit steadier and less shaky, the warmth, caffeine and sugar all doing their job. She felt calmer too, and she realised that she'd also been affected by what was going on. Not having Charlie to concentrate on, to hold it together for, and having finally stopped moving and trying to figure out how to handle Alan, she had time to think about how she felt. With Don's stabbing, her worry for him was so entwined with her worry for Charlie that she couldn't have separated them. Here she had a chance to figure it out. She was scared, upset and worried for Don, and just a little bit angry that he kept on doing this to them. It also had made her think about her own experience and how terrifying it was. The one thing she had known then was that she could count on Charlie and Don to find her and try to bring her home.

A phone rang, startling them both. It took Amita a moment to recognise that it wasn't her cell, that it must be Alan's. They both put their coffees down and Alan led the rush out of the kitchen. He ran into the living room and scooped up the still ringing phone off the table.

"Hello," he answered, his voice anxious and the word rushed. "David... What's happening?"

Amita circled the table as he spoke, moving close enough to be a support, but not so close that she was invading his personal space. She could hear David's voice over the phone, speaking rapidly and not giving Alan a chance to reply, but could not make out the actual words. The tinny voice stopped, and Alan paused for a moment before speaking.

"Just be careful, all of you. I - I don't want you getting hurt trying to—" He broke off, breathing heavily, his voice choked up with unshed tears. David said something, and then Alan handed the phone to her.

"Oh, okay," she said, surprised, almost fumbling the phone as she put it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Amita, how's he holding up?" David asked. The noise in the background indicated that he was in a car going at a very fast pace, with lights and sirens. She thought she also heard a female voice speaking, Nikki from the sound of it.

"Okay," she answered, turning away from Alan, trying to give him some privacy to pull himself together and hide the fact that she was talking about him. It made her slightly uncomfortable, answering questions about someone she was in the same room as.

"I need you to make sure that the TV stays off. It looks like Don's being held hostage, and it's going to be all over the channels. There's already TV stations covering it, even though they don't really have anything to report yet."

"Okay," she said again, nodding and her stomach sinking at the words. That much she could do.

"I'll call when I can, to let you know what's going on. I've got to go."

The call ended and she closed Alan's phone, turned and put it back on the table.

No TV. That would make the time go so much quicker.

* * *

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 5)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

* * *

It was showtime.

David nodded for the phone call to be connected, his focus fully on the objectives. Get Henshaw talking, find out what he wanted and try to end it peacefully. Keep him distracted enough in the first few minutes that he wouldn't hear the HRT team member getting in through the roof into the attic crawl space and putting some surveillance into place for them. The house had venting which, considering every window was shuttered, was going to be their only way of getting some visuals. The HRT team leader had assured him that the agent going in was incredibly light-footed and wouldn't make a sound. David hoped he was right. If they had to make a full tactical assault, more HRT members would be sent in through the roof while others would go through the doors.

The phone rang. David counted each ring, hoping it wouldn't ring out. There'd be some hesitation from Henshaw at picking up the phone—what the hell did you do when you'd taken a guy hostage and the phone rings?—but the longer it rang the more chance there was that he was keeping Don in an area of the house away from the phone. If that was so it was to their advantage if they could keep Henshaw on the phone. Separating him from his hostage gave them a solid chance at attempting a rescue.

The ringing stopped, the phone finally picked up.

"Hello?" a male voice asked, suspicious.

David moved to sit in front of the computer in the van, what they knew about Henshaw's life displayed in front of him. "Robert Henshaw?"

"Yes?" The suspiciousness was still there.

"Mr Henshaw, my name is David Sinclair. I'm with the FBI." Calm even tones were the key. He was about to continue when Henshaw interrupted.

"You're my negotiator, aren't you?" Henshaw was accusing, his tone bitter. "You think I'm some lowlife criminal. Well I'm not, Agent - Sinclair, was it? The criminal is the person who murdered my wife!"

"I don't think anything, Mr Henshaw," David said smoothly. "I'm not going to lie to you. I just want to make sure that we can work this out together, that we can help each other. How is everybody doing; everyone okay in there?"

"Oh, we're just fine," Henshaw replied, sarcasm dripping from each of the words. "Well, I am, anyway. Agent Eppes well, that's another story."

The hostility in Henshaw's voice when he said Don's name was both disturbing and useful. He definitely held animosity to his hostage which was never a good thing.

"If we're going to work together on this, I need to speak to Agent Eppes. I need to make sure he's okay."

There was a slight pause as Henshaw thought. "Sure, why not. Here he is."

There was a clunk—the phone being detached from the wall?—and footsteps. Henshaw's voice came from the background.

"Say hello to Agent Sinclair."

The next thing David heard was breathing, sounding a bit laboured, and a whimper. David exchanged glances with Colby, mirrored expressions of worry on their faces. When there was still no further sound, David spoke.

"Don." There was no response. "Don, can you hear me? It's David." He paused again. Colby's gaze got distant, listening in on HRT's radio channel. He focussed back on David and gave him a thumbs up—they had visuals and sound. Within seconds they'd be able to see what was going on.

"Don, are you okay? Don?"

One of the techs brought a monitor to life and they finally had eyes on the situation. At the same time a quiet voice came across the phone, sounding very lost.

"David?" The word was weak and confused. "What're you doin'...Charlie's? Not supposed to see you till 'morrow."

The words definitely confirmed that Don had a head injury. Colby glanced back from the monitor, concern in his eyes.

The high angle of their camera left them looking partially down on the dining room area. David quickly assessed what he could see. Don was seated beside the kitchen table just in reach of the phone, his hands resting still on the arms of the chair, tied. His upper body was slumped forward and he looked barely conscious. There were no visible weapons in sight.

"Don, just hold on. It's—"

Henshaw interrupted, taking the phone back. "You know he's alive...for now. What I want to know, Agent, is when do I get what _I_ want?"

Henshaw had moved away from Don taking the phone towards the kitchen. Each time he moved away from Don, David had an opportunity to try a tactical assault. Separating your hostage taker from the hostage was one of the things to aim for if you were going to assault. And the further you got through negotiations the less the opportunities for assaulting were likely to pop up. You could never have an opening back if you let it pass by.

"I'm going to do my best to help you, Mr Henshaw, but I need to know what it is you want before I can do that."

"It's quite simple, really. I want to know who murdered my wife."

"We can start looking into that," David answered, slightly thrown by the request. If Henshaw was serious, they were screwed. The probability of them being able to tell him who killed his wife at all, let alone on a short timescale as he probably was going to demand, was so pitifully small that a microscope would have a hard time finding it. "Is there anything you need like, uh, food, water or medical supplies?"

David could see Henshaw looking towards a photo on the wall, him and his wife, if David was not mistaken.

Henshaw gave his ultimatum. "The only thing you can get for me is the answers I want. Tell me who killed my wife. You have one hour."

"Mr Henshaw we need more time than that," David said in a rush, sensing that Henshaw was about to hang up the phone and wanting to get in before he did so. "It takes time—"

"You've had five years," Henshaw interrupted, his tone scathing. "And now you have two hours."

The line disconnected.

David blew out a frustrated breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt the urge to do something physical and get all the adrenaline out of his system. Beating the crap out of a punching bag sounded about right. An LAPD officer handed him a cup of coffee and he took it gratefully. Colby was on his cell, his finger raised in David's direction when he saw him looking. Getting the ball rolling on their search for Lesley Henshaw's killer.

As David had expected, Henshaw had not calmed down after he'd hung up the phone. He was pacing back and forth beside the dining room table like a caged animal, tension obvious in every step. The sudden stop beside Don's chair, the pullback of Henshaw's arm, the hard blow to Don's chest that rocked him in the chair, they were also expected. It's what Henshaw would do afterwards that would decide how the next two hours would go.

The microphone picked up Don's cry of pain and David tried not to react. He could practically hear Colby grinding his teeth together; Colby's jaw was clamped shut so hard. There was no doubt in David's mind that Colby wanted to wreak some physical pain on Henshaw in revenge for what he'd done. There'd be no way in hell that David would let him interview Henshaw alone once the situation ended. Assuming Henshaw came out of it alive.

Henshaw stood over Don for a minute or two, his hands still clenched, before finally walking away and sitting in a chair opposite him. When he stayed there, rubbing his hand over his face and his whole posture radiating weariness, David finally relaxed.

They'd need to keep watching him, but they now had the time to try to find Lesley Henshaw's murderer.

David took a large gulp of the coffee and turned to Colby. "We know anything new?"

Colby shook his head, his expression still grim. He glanced back at the screen, seemingly reluctant to take his eyes off Don. "Liz hasn't found anything. But she's going to start the search for similar MOs across the country and enlist Amita's help. Hopefully Amita will be able to speed up the database search somehow, or at least be able to create some algorithm that will narrow it down to the most likely candidates." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease some tension. "If he's still out there then he's had to have changed his MO. If he was leaving behind DNA still we'd know about it."

"You're probably right," David agreed.

A drone started overhead and quickly got louder, centring on their position. David was surprised it had taken that long for a news helicopter to get in on the action. Henshaw looked up in the house, his head turning from side to side and slammed his hand on the table beside him.

"Vultures."

The way Henshaw spat the word indicated clearly his feelings about reporters. Undoubtedly there had been much media interest in his wife's murder, explaining the depth of his feeling. David felt it was a good sign that he wasn't jumpy enough to consider the helicopter as part of a police conspiracy and was thinking enough to figure out that it would be the media.

David's phone rang.

"Sinclair," he answered automatically.

"It's Robin Brooks, just returning your message," Robin's familiar voice answered. David had left nothing in his message to make her anxious, she probably just thought that his phone call was about a case. Plus she'd know that Don had a day off and David was in charge. "What do you need?"

* * *

The doorbell rang.

It took Alan a minute to figure out what he should do, that somebody was at his door. Amita wasn't there to prod him out of his distraction, she was helping the FBI with something to do with rescuing Don. Nobody would tell him exactly what, just that they were negotiating, they had two hours—one-and-a-half now—and this was part of it. Amita was working in the garage, away from any questions Alan could ask. As much as he wanted to march out there and demand to be let in on what was going on, he knew that it was a bad idea. He was barely holding it together as it was and if he had a meltdown then Amita would be focussing on him and not on helping save his son. He did not need to know just exactly how the man who was holding Don hostage was hurting him or how the man was threatening Don's life. Not now.

Alan opened the door and it felt like history repeating itself.

Robin was standing on his doorstep, that same damned scarf, the same anxious expression, the same tears wanting to fall. This time he didn't have to hug her, she was suddenly in his arms, holding him tight. Alan rested his hands on her back, drawing comfort from her embrace, feeling his shakiness returning.

"I was in court," she said into his shoulder. There was a wobbly laugh from her. "Why does Don have to do these things when I'm busy?"

"Well, this time Charlie's out of the country, too, so he's got good timing all round."

They both laughed, the slightly hysterical 'if I don't laugh, I'll cry' of someone under high emotional stress. Robin squeezed him one more time and he reciprocated before she pulled back, wiping an escaped tear off her face. Alan moved back into the house, allowing her to finally enter. He settled down in a seat while she unwound the scarf from around her neck, twisting the material around her fingers after she'd finally pulled it free. She perched on a chair opposite him and looked down at her hands for a few seconds.

"They had a news report on the radio." Robin looked up at him.

As much as he wanted to tell her to stop, he didn't want to know, now that someone was finally telling him _something_ other than 'he's holding on, Mr Eppes' he couldn't.

"The man who took Don—his name is Robert Henshaw—his wife was murdered five years ago. They were saying that they had unconfirmed reports that he was holding an FBI agent hostage, and that the FBI agent, Don, had investigated the murder."

Robin broke eye contact and gazed off into the distance, trying to regain some control.

A man who'd suffered such a loss, Alan knew he could be capable of anything. And if he somehow blamed Don...

"David said he's holding on, he's okay," Alan said, not sure who he was trying to reassure, Robin or himself. "He's holding on," he repeated. Maybe if he said it enough times he could believe it.

"How—" Robin broke off, her voice choked up and rubbed at the wetness in her eyes. "How do you deal with this, this uncertainty day to day? I mean, he's not even safe when he's _not_ working."

Alan thought back on the years. On the worry at rarely hearing from Don when he was in fugitive recovery and wondering whether a larger gap meant anything, at his worry when Don was living so far away, at his worry when he'd learnt that Don had been shot at, knocked out, dosed with a possibly lethal drug...stabbed. At some point he had to stop worrying every day, every minute, or he'd go crazy. He had to go with the statistics: very few FBI agents were killed each year, most would never get seriously injured over their career. His son was more likely to die in an ordinary car crash than die on the job. And he had to wonder, when Don had been stabbed, did that make it less likely for it to happen again? Don had already defied the odds, been one of those few who got hurt, surely he couldn't again?

Apparently he could. On his day off, too.

"You just find a way to deal with it, try to remember to let him know that you love him before he walks out the door." Alan shook his head. "This is the exception, not the rule, Robin. You have to remember that. He's not getting any younger." Alan gave a wry smile. "At some point they'll pull him off field work or promote him." He sobered up. "Anybody can die, not just FBI agents."

"I guess you're right," Robin said. Glancing around the room, she changed the subject. "Where's Amita? David said she was here. This must have brought up some bad memories for her."

Alan pointed towards the garage. He hadn't even thought about the fact that it could be hard on Amita. "In the garage, working on something to help get Don out. I guess on what...Henshaw is demanding, seeing they had two hours. Liz said that he'd made his demands. What they are, I don't know." It was one of the many things that Liz had left out.

Robin gave him a sad smile. "And now we wait."

* * *

Don wanted someone to get the plates of the semi that had run over him. Everything _hurt_ so much. He could see out of one eye but it was fuzzy and hazily doubled. There was a man sitting opposite him, dislike for him clear in the man's eyes.

Don was looking at his lap again. He had to have lost some time, drifted off again. Raising his head up almost seemed like too much effort, but he did it anyway, gritting his teeth at his throbbing headache. His stomach churned uncomfortably, reacting to the high level of pain. It gave one last somersault and then it was all coming up. His chest burned and ached as he heaved, throwing up his lunch. The sight was enough to further set him off, his stomach continuing to spasm even when there was nothing left in it. Closing his eyes, Don tried to breathe shallowly. He kept them closed while he lifted his head up, really not wanting another look at the mess he'd made. Give him rotting bodies, maggots or brain matter and he was fine, but he'd always tended towards being a sympathetic vomiter, especially if he was the original offender.

When he opened his eyes again, the man opposite him—_Henshaw_—was trying to get his own sympathetic reaction under control. The fuzziness over where exactly he was and what was going on disappeared. He remembered most of what had happened and why Henshaw had abducted him. He thought he had heard David's voice at some point, but he wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," Don rasped out. The acid in the vomit had left his throat feeling raw. "I'd offer to clean 't up..."

Henshaw swallowed a few more times, his fist in front of his mouth blocking his nose. He kept his eyes on Don's face, avoiding the puddle down Don's side and on the floor.

"But you're a little tied up right now."

There was actual humour to the comment, even a slight smile, surprising Don. It would have been very easy for Henshaw to have given the statement a nasty edge, but it wasn't there. It was the first hopeful sign that Don had seen, the first hint of a real connection with Henshaw, the first hint that his initial rage and adrenaline rush were subsiding. Wanting to press on the advantage, Don knew he had to get him to see that what he was doing to Don's family was what had happened to him. Henshaw had such enormous empathy for other people going through similar pain that, now that he was seemingly more rational, Don had a higher possibility of getting him to see that this was wrong and hurting or killing Don was going to hurt innocent people.

Don smiled in reply, a twitch up of his lips. It pulled on his cut bottom lip but he ignored the pain.

"What's point of this? 's not going bring Lesley back."

Talking took a lot of energy, Don realised. It hurt his head, his mouth, his throat and his chest. Everything else just ached anyway.

"I know that," Henshaw replied. He rubbed at his temple and Don tried not to feel satisfaction at the fact that he was getting a headache.

"You were probably too out of it to hear, but the FBI are finding out who killed my wife as we speak. They have—" Henshaw looked at his watch, "—forty-five minutes left. Once I know, I'll let you go."

Don wished he could believe him. It filled in some gaps, Don probably had heard David's voice as they would have wanted to confirm that Don was alive. But it also indicated that Henshaw wasn't being as rational as Don had thought. There was almost no way in hell that the FBI could find out over such a short period of time, how long exactly Don didn't know, who had been responsible for the home invasions. They might narrow it down to a few possibilities but there was no way they could know for certain. Without certainty Don didn't think Henshaw would let him go. Why let go the one person you did have, who you held at least partially responsible for your wife's death, on the hope that they might have found the person primarily responsible?

"Don't believe you."

The simple words had their desired consequence. Henshaw's brow furrowed at the challenge, his eyes speaking as to his confusion.

"I assure you Agent, I will let you go."

Don shook his head. "What if they can't tell...who killed Lesley? What then? You haven't given 'em much time to figure it out. You have any idea how hard 'tis...try 'n find matching crimes and link them...just a few hours? This 's not CSI."

Henshaw chewed at the inside of his lip, thinking about what Don had said.

"What about _my_ family? You're doing to 'em what happened you."

"No," Henshaw denied quickly, shaking his head emphatically. Don had definitely found his weak spot.

"Yes, you are," Don continued, struggling to make sure all the words came out. "They've already been through this once... Was stabbed, not long ago."

Henshaw's eyes widened. _Didn't expect that, did you?_ Don thought.

"I nearly died. Do you think my girlfriend...my dad and brother need go through this again?"

Henshaw looked away, his hand raised to his mouth. He stared at the portrait of his wife on the wall, chewing on the edge of his index finger while his knee jiggled up and down. Don could see the moment Henshaw had decided: his jaw tensed and the knee stopped. He sighed and faced Don.

"I'll let you go when they tell me who killed my wife."

* * *

Henshaw sat staring at Don.

"Can you zoom in on Henshaw's face?" David asked the tech sitting in front of the video feed. He nodded his thanks when the tech did as he asked.

The body language Henshaw was displaying indicated that he wasn't as settled in his stated position as he had been when he'd finished talking with Don. Since then, Don had drifted in and out of consciousness or sleep and had thrown up again. When he'd seemed more lucid he hadn't bothered trying to talk to Henshaw other than asking for water, obviously having realised that his words weren't changing anything at this point. David thought it was a wise move, giving Henshaw a lot of time to really think about what Don had said and to look at what he had done to a fellow human being.

Henshaw's face further indicated his inner turmoil and indecision. His jaw worked back and forth as he thought and his gaze said that his mind was far away, even though he was looking at Don. There was a tiny hope burgeoning inside David that Don might have done it. He might have actually persuaded Henshaw not to try to kill him if they couldn't give Henshaw the information he wanted.

"Thanks," David said again.

The tech zoomed the footage back out.

"You think Don might have gotten through to him?" Colby asked.

"Yeah, I think there's a good chance." David pulled out his phone and dialled Liz's speed dial.

"Warner," she answered.

He could hear the click of keyboard keys as she said her name.

"You got anything yet?" David asked. They had twenty minutes left on Henshaw's deadline and they needed to have a game of play before the deadline passed, whether it be with no information for him or some.

"We're getting there. We've got a list of similar crimes across the country and Amita's already narrowed it down a fair bit. We're close."

David rubbed his hand over his forehead. "Okay, you've got ten more minutes, but then we need to see what we've got."

* * *

It was decision time. Liz was on video conference, pulling together pieces of paper as they watched.

"Okay, so we _think_," Liz emphasised the word, "that we know who murdered Lesley Henshaw."

"Really?"

Colby's voice reflected the surprise David felt. David had thought that there was no way they could narrow it down to one suspect in the time given.

"Yeah," Liz replied. "I mean, only DNA will really prove it, but he seems a pretty good bet. He's definitely worth checking out."

"Okay," David said. "So who is he?"

"Simon Kane, twenty-eight years old. He was arrested nine months ago while in the middle of a home invasion in Colorado. He'd put the owner of the home in a coma with several blows to the head. The owner still hasn't woken up."

"Why do you think it's him?" Colby asked.

"We found seventeen home invasions across Colorado, Utah, Wyoming and Idaho over the past five years that matched the profile of the home invasions here. Owners killed, over killed, with blows to the head, jewellery and TVs stolen, someone having eaten a meal in the house. There were no fingerprints and no DNA."

"He got smart after he left LA," David surmised.

"Yeah, and that's why he also spread out over time and area. No crime was in twenty miles of another and there were varying amounts of time between them; at a minimum, a couple of weeks. Nobody made a connection between the crimes because they were too spread out. After Kane was arrested in Colorado the home invasions with that signature just stop."

"There's been none for nine months?" David confirmed.

"None. None of the gaps were that large, either. Amita thinks that it's statistically likely that they are all connected and that Kane's our guy."

David thought. It sounded plausible, but there were still a few things that he needed to know. "Were you able to confirm that Kane was in LA during the original home invasions?"

"Yeah, he was a delivery driver for a pizza shop."

Which would be a perfect way to blend in. Most people wouldn't take any notice of a pizza delivery guy in their neighbourhood.

"We did it, then," Colby said. "We found who killed Henshaw's wife."

"Maybe," David cautioned. "We can't know for sure unless we check his DNA."

"Hopefully it'll be enough for Henshaw," Liz commented.

"All right," David said. "Colby, I want you with the team at the front door. Nikki, you still in place?"

Nikki had been assigned to the team that would make entrance via the attic crawlspace. David didn't doubt that she'd hated sitting around for the hours of waiting for something to happen.

"Affirmative," Nikki's voice came over the radio.

"If it all goes pear-shaped, you know what to do. Captain Ruiz will give the command if I can't."

If he was still on the phone to Henshaw it would be a little hard to give a voice command without Henshaw knowing about it.

David returned to watching Henshaw and Don while Colby got into position with the HRT team outside the front door. It was obvious that Henshaw was getting anxious, his leg was jiggling up and down at breakneck speed and he kept checking his watch. The behaviour had cued Don in on the fact that it was almost time. David could see Don moving and tensing body parts, trying to keep himself conscious and alert.

"In position."

Colby's words left David with only one thing to do. He signalled for the phone to be dialled. It rang once, twice, three times. Henshaw had startled at the first ring, but hadn't moved from his chair. He was hesitating about answering the phone, a pretty reasonable reaction to try to avoid the hard decisions it would bring. After five rings he finally stood up and rushed to the phone.

"Hello?" He sounded breathless, the sudden movement and adrenaline responsible.

"Mr Henshaw, it's Agent Sinclair from the FBI. How are you going, do you need anything?"

"I'm fine." Henshaw shook his head. "Don't need anything. And Agent Eppes is fine, too."

His voice was a lot more neutral than when David had last spoke to him and there wasn't an immediate demand for the information he wanted. The man had definitely calmed down over the two hours, giving the Bureau a much higher hope of ending the situation through negotiation.

"That's good," David said. He kept his own voice calm with a slight hint of praise to it. Not enough to seem patronising, only enough to work on Henshaw's subconscious and set him further at ease.

"Have you found out who killed Lesley?"

The raw pain and need in the words indicated why Henshaw had been so willing to go to such lengths. The words were as lost and afraid as any child wondering why their mommy or daddy wasn't coming home that David had ever heard. It was the sort of loss that always made his heart twinge in empathy with the speaker.

"Mr Henshaw," David said, "we think we might have."

The phone receiver crashed to the ground out of Henshaw's suddenly nerveless fingers. The wall that the phone was attached to appeared to be the only thing stopping his body from following its path. He covered his face with his hands and shook.

Don was trying to twist around to see what was going on, probably worried that they'd given Henshaw bad news.

When Henshaw finally removed his hands his face was wet. He leaned down and picked up the phone. There was a sniff to restrain the tears and then Henshaw's voice, no longer steady.

"Who?"

The tricky part was knowing how much information to give. "His name is Simon Kane. He's in prison in Colorado for putting a man in a coma while robbing his house. We'll compare his DNA to find out for certain whether it's him."

"But you think it's him?"

He was pleading to be told that, while the boogeyman was real, someone had locked its ass up and thrown away the key.

"Yes, we do."

Harsh sobs came over the phone, muffled by Henshaw's hand. "I need...I need a minute." The line went dead; he'd hung up the phone.

"David, what just happened?" Colby asked.

"He hung up the phone," David answered. "I think he just needs some time to process it."

"Or to decide that he can kill the other person he thinks is responsible," Nikki said quietly.

"We've got video, we'll know if he's going to try anything," David reassured them.

_Please let me be right_, he prayed.

* * *

Don couldn't believe it. It sounded like his team had actually managed to get a solid suspect in Lesley Henshaw's murder. _That was assuming Nikki wasn't running the negotiations_, he thought wryly. She'd let him know that she'd learnt the lesson from the hostage negotiation course; if you lied and the hostage taker found out, your credibility was shot. It was almost impossible to come back from that and try to re-earn the level of trust needed to successfully negotiate.

Henshaw was pacing up and down beside Don and the table, agitated. He had an answer and now wasn't sure what to do. The phone rang again and Henshaw ignored it. The problem was that if he didn't answer the phone the team would very likely assault, unless they had eyes on the situation somehow. They couldn't take the risk that Henshaw was in the process of killing Don while they waited for him to pick up the phone.

"You have to make a decision." Don took great care to enunciate each word, knowing that this was likely the last chance he had. "If you don't answer next time it rings, they'll be coming through that door." He gestured with his head to the front door and rode out the wave of pain it generated.

Henshaw stared at him, his face blank. Don couldn't tell what he was thinking, what decision he was going to make.

"You failed Lesley. You failed me. How many others did you fail?"

Don's stomach twisted and his heart started beating faster. Henshaw wasn't going to give up. The phone started ringing again, making him think that maybe they did have surveillance.

"But I'm going to show you the mercy that my Lesley was never shown."

Henshaw walked around him to the phone while Don tried to process what had just been said. Henshaw was going to let him go when just moments before Don had been sure that his life was about to come to an end.

"I surrender."

He registered the ringing of the phone stopping and Henshaw's first words, but didn't hear anything past that for a while. The rushing in his ears was making it hard to focus.

The next thing he heard was multiple yells of 'FBI'. Colby came through the door and Don had never seen anything more welcome in his entire life. The agent that followed Colby in helped clear the rooms. They couldn't take the risk that there was more than one kidnapper or Henshaw had left behind some surprises.

"Clear," the other agent said.

Colby handed his weapon off to the other agent and crouched down beside Don.

"Hey, Don," he said, starting to look him over. "Medic is right here."

"Took you so long?" Don asked, a hint of a smile on his face. It disappeared when Colby started untying the rope around his right wrist. Each movement pressed against the swelling in his arm.

"We had to draw straws to figure out which of us had to put up with your stinky ass," Colby responded lightly. He was almost done with that arm.

"Hey, no fair makin' fun...the injured guy." Don was starting to feel like he could pass out at any minute. The relief of rescue was forcing all the adrenaline out of his system.

Colby started on the other arm. "Yeah, well, don't give crap to your rescuers."

"Henshaw?" Yep, Don was reaching the end of his strength. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate or talk.

"In custody. Unhurt, other than for the bruises you gave him." And the split and swollen knuckles he'd gained from hitting Don. "Hey, Don, you with me?"

Don thought he might have said 'Uh hm', but from Colby's reaction it either hadn't come out or it wasn't good enough. Colby's hand was on the side of his face, someone was telling him to open his eyes, and then the world tilted forward.

* * *

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 6/6)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.

* * *

Don's forehead furrowed and his limbs moved underneath the blanket. The squirming continued on for another few seconds before he settled down again, rolling further onto his side. Don had taken up occupancy on the couch again. Charlie would never understand what the attraction of it was, particularly when you couldn't spread out.

If Don were to wake, he'd make some comment about Charlie watching him sleep being 'creepy'. Charlie preferred to think of it as making sure his brother really was still alive. The kitchen door opened and shut and Alan joined him.

"Another nightmare?" Alan asked quietly.

"A few minutes ago," Charlie answered back. At least Don wasn't waking up in a sweat, wide-eyed and confused. He'd never talk about what he saw in the nightmares, whether it was his ordeal with Henshaw or his stabbing. "He said he was going to take it easy and then he gets kidnapped."

"Well, he was taking it easy," Alan pointed out wryly. "He was at the mall."

"That's not the point," Charlie said. "When I landed and got your voicemail, I knew something was wrong. And I thought, 'How can I go through this again?' I don't think I can." He looked back at Don, still asleep. Every day there were so many opportunities for something bad to happen, and that didn't just include Don's job. It also didn't just include Don. He'd had a hard time letting Amita out of his sight in the previous few days, his anxiety extending past Don to the other person he'd nearly lost.

"I think that at this point the chances of anything happening again would have to be tiny. No, Don's going to live a nice long life, unless he gets hit by a car or something." The seriousness of Alan's tone was offset by the twinkle in his eyes.

Charlie shook his head in bemusement. "Way to try and comfort me, Dad."

"At some point you have to stop worrying and just start living."

Don's legs kicked under the blanket and he opened his eyes. "Hey, what's a guy got to do to get some sleep around here?" he asked sleepily. His left hand came out from under the blanket and he rubbed at his eyes, before running his fingers through his hair. Couch-hair still looked like bed-hair and with the extra length he'd been allowing it to grow it was worse than it had used to be.

"Lunch's almost ready anyway," Alan said as Don manoeuvred himself up on the couch, the blanket across his lap.

"Oh, Robin said she'd be by later, for dinner, probably," Don said.

"Just as long as there's no funny business on the couch." Alan said the words deadpan.

Charlie felt his mouth gape open and he could see that Don had had a similar reaction. They were both floundering for words as their father got up and left the room to 'check on lunch'.

Don recovered first. "Did he just say that?" he asked with an incredulous smile. "He totally just said that."

"So, when _do_ I get my couch back?" Charlie decided to keep the conversation light-hearted as it had become.

Don sniggered. "What? You want to get up to some funny business of your own with Amita?"

"Ha ha ha," Charlie replied, rolling his eyes. Don always thought he was such a comedian and mostly he wasn't.

The door to the kitchen opened and Alan poked his head out, proving that he had been eavesdropping. "You may own the house Charlie, but not the furniture."

"Didn't I buy it fully furnished? I could swear there was furniture here." Don wasn't funny, but Charlie certainly was in his own opinion. His comment did earn a grin from Don.

"Now I know which one of you to leave the bulk of the inheritance to," Alan said. He made a disapproving face and ducked back into the kitchen.

"That would be me he was referring to," Don said, the smile that was lurking on his face plain in his voice.

"Yeah, I got that," Charlie mock-grumbled. They always ganged up on him.

Don pulled his cell out of his pocket and checked the display. A frown creased his forehead before he put it back away. Charlie wasn't sure whether he was expecting any messages, but pulling the phone out and checking had seemed to become almost an unconscious tic since leaving the hospital.

"Henshaw's not going to get off, is he?" The thought had been worrying Charlie. Don had seemed overly sympathetic whenever Henshaw was mentioned, especially considering the fact that Henshaw had hurt and kidnapped him. Having seen the injuries that Henshaw had inflicted, Charlie couldn't feel anything but anger towards him. Yes, he had lost his wife in tragic circumstances but it did not give him the right to viciously attack other people and hold them hostage.

Don shrugged. "Probably not." He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip, brooding. "I feel sorry for him, you know, but I feel kinda like he might have also had a point," Don admitted.

Charlie heard the kitchen door swing open and shut and Alan joined them again. "Donnie, you're not superman. You're not going to solve every crime."

"My head knows that, everything else not so much right now. I mean, it only took Amita and Liz two hours to find a suspect."

Charlie had never seen Don doubt himself so much before or be as open as he was being about his feelings. He had a feeling that the painkillers Don was on might have been a partial explanation.

"And that was only because he was caught by chance," Charlie replied before his father could. "If he hadn't been, then they'd just have known that Kane had continued elsewhere. It's not your fault."

"I know, it's just..." Don sighed.

"I understand." Charlie did understand. He'd felt the same way when Don had been stabbed, wondering whether he'd made a mistake and doubting the work he'd done. He still felt a sinking in his gut when he thought about it.

"Did you overlook a suspect in the home invasions?" Alan asked and Don shook his head. "Did you do all that you could to find the person responsible?"

"Yes," Don replied.

"You didn't decide that something else was more important and not put enough work into it?"

Alan's words reminded Charlie of their conversation in the hospital when Don had been stabbed. What his father had said had reinforced his own guilt when he'd first heard it, particularly as Charlie had believed that it was all his own fault. But Alan had been responding to what Charlie had told him during a highly stressful situation, that he had rushed work that could put FBI agents and his own brother in danger. Alan's reaction had been understandable, that of a father afraid for his child and hearing someone else saying that it was through their neglect that he was hurt. That didn't mean that it hadn't stung, but it would have stung less if there had been less truth to it.

Charlie had talked to Alan later, once he'd really thought things through and realised that there was no way he could have predicted a fifth man or what exactly the goal of the home invasions was. Yes, he'd done the work quickly, but that did not mean it was substandard. That conversation had reminded Charlie of how he'd felt when he couldn't work for the FBI, of how much he'd missed the work. It had taken him such little time to start resenting again the time it took away from his academic work. He'd needed to think about it all, figure out whether there was a way to balance the demands of both worlds or whether it'd be better for him to make a choice.

"No," Don answered, annoyance at the possible criticism in his voice.

"Well, then, you did all that you could."

Charlie redirected the conversation. "When do you get the DNA results back?"

They still didn't know for certain whether Kane was the person who had killed Henshaw's wife. He was a viable suspect and that was all that seemed to matter to Henshaw at the time, but it would be good for Don to have closure. Plus it would mean that they would have a murderer off the streets.

"Not sure. It's not a very urgent case and there's a backlog."

"Liz and Colby get anything out of him?" Charlie asked. He'd wondered why half of Don's team were gone when he'd dropped in at the FBI three days before. David had brought him up to speed.

"No, but then he hasn't admitted to the one he was caught red-handed for, so there's not much chance of that." Don's sour expression showed how he felt about it. It had to be frustrating knowing that Kane would likely never admit to any of his crimes.

"Once you have the DNA, you won't need a confession."

Alan nodded in agreement with Charlie and Don sighed, weary.

"Yeah."

Alan clapped his hands together and spoke, his voice falsely cheerful. "Who wants some lunch?"

* * *

Emails, emails, emails. Each day it took Don almost an hour to go through the deluge. As supervisor of violent crimes he got a lot more emails than any other member of his team. It was tedious and boring reading through the majority of them. David had been more than willing to pass the leadership back to him once he realised how much bureaucracy had to be dealt with. Paperwork: the bane of humankind.

"Shit."

The word was rather loud and emphatically said. Don spun in his chair towards David's desk, noting that Colby had also reacted.

"David, everything okay?" Don asked, concerned.

David looked away from his computer screen and Don knew whatever was going on couldn't be good. David was well and truly annoyed.

"We just got the DNA results from Kane back."

Don's stomach sunk. David's swearing could mean only one thing: they had no case.

"No match."

--FIN--

A/N: Well, my longest fic is now officially done. Thank you to everyone for the reviews and support. This fic almost didn't make the light of day as I had 8000 words written before 'The Fifth Man' aired that dealt with a lot of the same issues that episode did, particularly with David being in charge. The fact that the episode had home invasions was a whole different issue that I eventually decided to ignore. But, I thought about it and figured a way to add and change to set it after the episode, and then after the season finale when that aired and I think it's made it a better fic. My first time being Jossed, got to love it.


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